Common Crisis

Saturday, 6 October 2012

I could see right through the frail woman’s pain. I felt it.
Those around her wailed but she didn’t. Instead, she stared at us, she stared
past us, her eyes searching through the crowd, t in the area,Her son was gone and never coming back, but even
so, she was not not for anyone in particular but nonetheless searching
without necessarily registering our presence; this was a long, awkward and
extremely sad moment when nothing said or done could help ease the situation. She
tightly held on to the lifeless body of her little boy that lay on her laps.

I knew her little boy, 5years old and a bit tall for his
age. I was sure I had seen the boy once or twice before, esssearching without as we had some
grounds work done for the measurement and digging up of the borehole in the
eastern part of Wargadud town. In fact, I could have sworn I had seen the child
earlier that morning, or not. But either way, I either way, i was
equally saddened to learn of his demise, and especially the fact that he
succumbed to malaria. Some villagers said it was a complicated case of typhoid,
others argued that it couldn’t have been typhoid since it wasn’t common in the
area. A stout man in the furthest corner of the now mammoth crowd
authoritatively pointed out to measles. This was of course a sad situation, not
only was a child dead, but also his cause of death was subject to debate by
villagers who were not experts in any healthcare related field. Then that the
arguments took a different direction. Blame on the government and on the
private organizations that pledged aid to the community started. Negligence was
the main focus.

The villagers demanded to know why they were not getting
ample healthcare and medical attention as the rest of the country and its
citizens were. Their fury was so eminent, but they were justified. This is an
area that is home for close to a thousand families, including its surroundings,
yet it is served by a district hospital with one doctor, who is always on call,
a handful of overworked nurses and a community health worker. To add onto that,
Mobile health clinics from private organizations is a concept widely speculated
in the area but yet to materialize, due to lack of funding in one way or the
other.

So who could blame these angry villagers? They had just lost
one of their own, a bridge to the next generation, an innocent child; all due to
improper health care. I say improper because whatever the cause of death, it
was clear that under the right circumstances it could have been prevented.
Sadly, the death toll is still on the rise. Wargadud is yet to receive proper
attention as far as health care services are concerned.

I walked away, but not before stealing one last glance at
the grieving mother. Her son was gone and was never coming back, but even so,
she didn’t stand alone in this. Her fellow villagers, obviously tired of
somewhat begging for better healthcare services day in day out in the area,
stood by her in this. Even a bicycle can’t stand alone…it is two tired….

‘The team which
handles the pressure best, carries the day’- Imran Khan-

I have no idea how the above relates to the following story,
but I thought I would take a chance as I have always wanted to use that quote.
Wait, it’s not really about Imran Khan’s quote, but about Imran himself. I have
always watched this American born- Indian actor’s movies, that is despite the fact that
I do not understand a single word in Hindi. There is more to communication than
the use of words.

Back to the topic at hand, following my previous post, it
was one week later since we arrived in Elwak. Yes, we made it to Elwak, but
without our phones, liquid cash and the one laptop that we had carried along with
us. We had been attacked by a group of very young men called mashiftas, who had
guns, pangas and a couple of ripped up phones obviously from previous attacks. None
of the people onboard (in our lorry of course) had been injured in any way as
we had all co-operated. By injured, I mean there was no serious bodily harm
inflicted on any of us, except for our first driver who suffered a swollen left
cheek after being hit by the butt of a gun.

So a week later, after having settled down and composing
myself emotionally, I was ready to engage in community activities. On this
particular day; a Saturday, the lower primary children did not go to school,
and most spent their afternoon time walking not far away distances to fetch
water.(Our organization had plans of completing a bore hole near one of the
villages in the outskirts of the town.) From a distance, carrying Jerry cans
and chuckling, some shouting, others singing, I saw the children go to fetch
water. They were oblivious of my staring. Some were bear foot out of choice,
others not, but nonetheless they all seemed to be in unison in the quest for
bringing back water. I half walked, half ran and they did not notice me
approaching them until I was right behind them.

For a split second, silence took over in this little
crowd, and then the murmurs started. They exchanged glances and some laughed at
my somewhat awkward intrusion.

‘Madam Arkam’ they greeted me and that was all I understood.
Every other word that was directed to me was done so in a bit of Swahili-which
I responded to-but the greatest percentage of the conversation was done in their
mother tongue. I still acknowledged by nodding approvingly. I knew they were
welcoming me, or telling me histories of some of the homes we passed by, or
better still telling me about this town, their families, parents, and so on. I knew this
because I chose to believe they were talking to me and not about me.( I am
particularly good at massaging my ego).

One of the boys who were obviously the
trailblazers of this ‘journey’ nudged me to get my attention, and pointed towards
an elderly man who sat a stone throw away from where we were. This particular
boy went on and on to explain something, occasionally pointing at the elderly man’s
leg and playing dead. At first I thought it was a laughing matter until I
realized none of the kids was laughing at this animated story, so my building smile faded
away. It was when the boy mentioned Nairobi and then Kenyatta Hospital that I
safely deduced that he must have been telling me the elderly man was or had
been sick and had been admitted at Kenyatta Hospital in Nairobi. ‘Pole sana’ I
said in reply to the boy, as I helped up a girl who had tripped just in front
of me.

As we walked on, in the scorching sun, I couldn’t help but
realize that this was an opportunity for me to assuage these young children’s
desire for knowledge. They obviously had questions for me; where I was from,
what I had come to do in this town and how long I would be staying and so
forth; but more conspicuously, was the look of confusion in all those innocent facesas to why I neither spoke nor understood their
language, and vice versa. We nonetheless fetched water and ‘shared more stories’;
laughter included.

I understood them and they understood me. We were on the
same team. We communicated…th; but most
importantly, all those innocent faces registerde for knowledge. They obviously
had questions for me, where i n admitted at Kenyatta Hospital in Nairobi. 'ckhen
the boy mentioned Nairobi and then Kenyatta Hospital that i

Tuesday, 25 September 2012

We had a puncture, or so I thought. No, wait, it was a stop over in the middle of nowhere. I wasn't sure. I had slept through the whole journey and from the look of things I still had a lot of sleeping to do- for the next two days. My back was aching and my legs were numb. I had been sleeping on the lorry's middle seat for the six hours since we left Nairobi and it was time for me to exchange position with my colleague.

The stopover had been a long time coming. I jumped from the lorry, and gladly found a bush where I could take a leak.We were on our way to Elwak in Mandera Central, North Eastern Kenya.

Though I couldn't tell the exact location of our stop over, I knew instinctively that we still had a long journey ahead of us. In the height of insecurity and rising death toll in the area we were headed, I could only pray. Earlier that evening my mom had seen me off to eastleigh; where my workmates and I boarded this very lorry that had among other things the relief food that we were going to supply. The sight of our mode of transport was enough to make any mother shed tears. She literally tried talking me out of pursuing the journey. I did understand how she felt then, but I just couldn't bring myself to turn and head back home with her. It pains me to date that I put her through such emotional torture,uncertainty and worst of all fear of whether or not she would ever see me alive again.

I had been sure that all will be well;that I would come home not so many days later and surprise her. I was confident. Still lost in my trail of thoughts and out in the warm wind, I heard gunshots from a distance, then approaching,there were glaring head lights from what seemed like a convoy of lorries. All the confidence that I radiated earlier in the evening while with my mom, eluded me. Ladies and gentle men,as panic stricken as I was, I followed my colleagues and we hid in the nearest bush. We couldn't fathom who the approaching were,nor couldn't we climb back into our lorry for two reasons. First our driver and his turn boy and another guy who I later came to learn was the second driver(again please note this was one very long journey that kind of reminded me the use of horses in medieval times that took days for people to reach their destination) had disengaged the head of the lorry from the rest of its body in order to tightening it up.Secondly, due to the panic, it was easier and safer to hide and lie down as opposed to jumping into the lorry.

A second, third and a series of gunshots burst into the air, with each subsequent shot growing louder and seemingly near. I died........or not, but I know I did because at that very moment I lost the strength to pray and worse still I couldn't feel my heartbeat anymore, let alone move a muscle.....................

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About Me

I am a humanitarian at heart.( aren't we all?) I believe in peace and worldwide brotherhood. These are words that tell my story and those of others;visions and experiences that lead to notable moments in my humanitarian activities.Some big, others bigger but nonetheless,moments of doubts,fear,uncertainty with little glimpse of hope and occasional triumphs.This is in search of a better and safer tomorrow in days to come.